I will never total it all. will never come in to say: She was a child seldom smiled a Her father left me before she was a year old. I had to work her first six years when there was work, or I sent her home and to is relatives. There were years she had care she hated. She was dark and thin and foreign-looking in a world where the prestige went to blonde ness and curly hair and dimples, she was slow where glibness was prized. She was a child of anxious, not proud, love. We were poor and could not afford for her the soil of easy growth. I was a young mother I was a distracted mother. There were other children pushing up, de- manding. Her younger sister seemed all that she was not. There were years she did not want me to touch her. She kept too much in herself her life was such she had to keep too much in herself. My wisdom came too late. She has much to her and probably little will come of it. She is a child of her age, of depression, war, fear. how many Let her be. So all that is in her will not bloom-but in does it? There is still enough left to live by. Only help her to know help make it so there is cause for her to know-that she is more than this dress on the ironing board, helpless before the iron.